


Nevermore

by PacketofRedApples



Category: Alan Wake (Video Game)
Genre: AU - Alan returns home, Alan Wake's tears, Anal Sex, Bleeding, Hallucinations, M/M, No Lube, PWP, Rough Sex, Sad Porn, Selfcest, Spooning, Yes you read that right, cheating kinda, cuddling is involved, doppelgangers, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15527715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacketofRedApples/pseuds/PacketofRedApples
Summary: It isn't terror he feels, it's guilt.





	Nevermore

**Author's Note:**

> It's me, ya' boy. Back at it again with the shitty fic. Enjoy.  
> I was going to go in a different direction with this, but gave up and turned it into bad porn. Sorry, Y'all. I am the worst™.

He’s safe; he tries to tell himself that. Everything will be okay from now on; he tries to make himself believe that. There are a lot of lies Alan Wake keeps muttering to himself every time the lights go out. Every time the terror kicks in when he doesn’t have a flashlight or a gun. But it’s useless, because even if he presses close to Alice, even if he cries out to her and she holds him—when he falls asleep, the dreams come. And they’re unavoidable. He doesn’t sleep most of the time, but exhaustion gets even to an insomniac. They’re almost all the same. Almost. While the majority of them are about the cruel monsters, chasing after him while he is unable to protect himself… At times, frozen in spot. There are also the dreams where he sees…him. And it isn’t fear he feels, it is guilt.

They reach for one another. Every time, they do that and it never really connects. They never actually touch each other and while The Herald bears a sinister smirk, Alan sees through it. He knows, he doesn’t need to ask, he knows everything. Because Zane implied more than enough. It is sad, but realizing the other had been here much longer puts an odd taste into the writer’s mouth. One he cannot forget, that haunts him through and through. Wake feels responsible for what has happened to the other.

And every time the feeling sets, he can’t help but try harder to grasp at his double. He wants to change what he did, making him the villain. But even if he did, Scratch was long gone. He was beyond fixing or coming back. Neglected and terrified, he grew up into a monster and getting turned into the writer’s nemesis didn’t change anything.

So really, it’s paranoia when Alan walks out to the streets when he finds the spots without people and sees that raven consistently there. Or when he’s at home and a bird sits by his window. Omnipresent. It's following him, he decides. But another idea springs to mind that he can’t really help it. With slowly growing boldness, he eventually approaches it, a flashlight in his hand just in case.

Evening. Careful, slow steps take him to the window. He opens it, but the bird doesn’t flutter away, instead cocking his head to look at him.

But that’s as far as he planned. Anxiously, he attempts to touch the bird, make sure it’s really there. Part of his brain saying it is merely a coincidence. There are so many ravens here anyway, but the other part doesn’t listen. The other part wants to believe.

Alan’s hand rest on the black feathered creature, instantly jolting away. It’s real, or it felt real.

But the animal takes it as an invitation and flies into the small office room. The writer jumps back as the bird flies past him. And when he rest near the typewriter, Wake aims the flashlight at it. Upon trying to turn it on, it suddenly fails. He knew he changed the batteries, he knew it worked just right before this. Eventually, after hitting it a couple times against his palm, he succeeds in making it work. But once he raises his eyes to look up, the bird is no longer there. Confused, Alan looks around but doesn’t spot anything anymore. It is when he approaches the table that he sees a feather laying there.

Furrowing his brow he picks it up, scrutinizing it under his sight. Yet, it only raises more questions than it could ever answer.

“I missed us.” That same voice he is already used to, already accustomed to accepting. He knows it sounds different from his despite being the exact same. It has a complex tone and individuality. But recognizing it doesn’t change the fact of how it’s whispered against his ear, cold air caressing him. Left hand pressed against his Adam’s apple. “The same old battle, the fighting for who gets control… It was fun. But you can’t get rid of me that easily, Wake. I’m beyond what you understand.”

Alan, feeling like a deer in the headlights doesn’t move, his throat running dry. His poor rabbit heart beating faster and faster. Is he going to die? That has never been the case with Mr. Scratch. He knew he couldn’t kill him without repercussions, but now that he’s out—doesn’t that change it? Doesn’t it mean the killer can finally pounce on its prey?

The other body’s right-hand trails against the t-shirt Alan was wearing, settling on the hem of his pajama bottoms. Alan’s blood boils, lightning at his fingertips, but moving is too difficult. It’s scary.

“Don’t you feel the same way?” The herald mutters as he slips underneath the fabric. The writer’s flesh betrays him and he tries to shut his eyes, screw them up so he wouldn’t see this. “Oh… Shh, you don’t have to be like this. You do realize it’s all in your head? You’re choosing to let this happen.”

A blink and the hands are off him. He’s alone in the room, feeling colder than before. Another blink and he’s knocked against the shelve, books tumbling down and hitting the floor. Scratch’s lips on his and it feels better than most anything he could have imagined and that is the true horror.

He wanted this and it frightened him.

Alan’s own hands grabbed onto the suit jacket, as the doppelganger’s rested on his hips. Somewhere in the kiss, there are teeth, nicking Alan’s bottom lip, blood trailing down. But as close as they begin to press to one another it isn’t close enough, he feels the need for more. Their hips brush against one another’s, before the herald’s leg slips in against Wake’s groin. Which only becomes an invitation for the writer to rock his hips more and more against the now solid frame of the other man. The guilt, eating away at him… What is he doing, betraying Alice like this? But when the other’s mouth begins to travel against his skin, leaving bites along his neck, Alan moans out, instantly deciding to put off thinking about it for now.

“Let me take over.” Scratch says, but if it’s meant to be soft—it isn’t. It’s not even really a question. It’s as stern as a command.

Alan nods. And to his surprise watches as the herald drops to the floor, taking off his pants and underwear, helping him step out of them before throwing them behind himself as he returns to a standing position. Alan’s hands jump at the expensive looking belt buckle of the other, undoing it with some masterful fingers before he gets them shooed off. Scratch then unzips his pants, revealing a disturbing lack of underwear and takes out his dick. Already hard. Alan becomes somewhat nervous. Anxiety filling him to the brim—is he really going to do this? And why the hell was he enjoying himself… But the proximity persist once more, and the double kisses him, hands on his buttocks as they lift him up—proving that the damn bastard was even stronger than him, he actually had enough upper body strength to not only raise him enough off the floor, but also to allow Alan put his legs around his hips. Wake’s back rest more against the bookcase and the writer takes in the sensation of being kissed this deeply. But it’s all a distraction as Scratch hooks his arms under the other man’s knees, positioning him for better access.

“I’m not going to lie, this will hurt, buddy.” Is the last thing he mutters when they pull apart for air. Soon enough he rams into the writer’s entrance, making him jolt and gasp. It was unpleasant, that’s for sure. But once the motion is repeated and he is steadily pounded in, despite how much it hurts there’s a glimmer of pleasure. Alan’s cock twitches at it, appreciating it all.

Alan’s hands rest onto the doppelgangers shoulder’s, pressing hard as if begging for it to feel better, but it never comes. His eyes gloss over as he tries not to cry, but it doesn’t work. Soon enough there are tears rolling down his cheeks and he’s sniffling. How weak and pathetic, and completely human.

Scratch stops, letting one of his legs down, slowly as to not make him fall and inches in to lick off the tears. Smirking, right as he lays him on the floor, face down, one leg hiked up and he readjusts his dick to rest where it should be before returning to the rocking into him. Blood was never a good lubricant.

Crying like a bitch, the writer couldn’t help it. It was awful, but he didn’t want to fight it. He didn’t want to oppose the man. But the way he pushed in and out, filled him up—it felt fucking painful but sort of good, too. Conflicting sure, but Alan sobbed and sobbed. Not because he was weak, but because he has seen enough to not want to be in pain no more. He doesn’t have to hide behind a macho façade anymore.

Hell, when Mr. Scratch comes in him, pulling out and chuckling, Alan merely sighs resting his head against the floor.

He doesn’t think about what happens next and it comes like a real surprise when he feels a hand thrown over him as the herald presses against his back, nuzzling closer. And they just lay there for a bit. Wake feels the blood gushing out. But Scratch doesn’t even flinch away until the tears stop and his breathing regulates.

It’s a silent moment, right before the double presses his lips against the writer’s ear and whispers into it: “Time to wake up, Alan.”

And he does.


End file.
